


Draw Me Like One of Your Orlesian Girls

by Whuffie



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: DA2, Dragon Age - Freeform, F/M, Light Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whuffie/pseuds/Whuffie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris discovers and develops a hidden talent during his years traveling and rocky romance with Hawke.  (Updated to fix the missing half of the last chapter.)  Warning: Explicit sexual content (consensual)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Draw Me Like One of Your Orlesian Girls](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/32691) by verabai. 



> Warnings: Graphic battle violence and explicit, consensual sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris explores a hidden talent.

Author’s Note: This is a gift through Dragon Age: Holiday Cheer. 

Warning: Contains sexual, consensual content and battle violence

“I told you everything!” Fingers encased in protective gloves scrabbled uselessly against the streamlined, interlocking plates of a gauntlet which clasped his throat. Air choked and wheezed with his words as a man futilely attempted to pry off the hold which was digging deeper into reddening skin. “Let me go. I'll give you anything you want! Money! I've got gol--” His breath turned into a gurgle as Fenris' lip curled up on one side of his lips in a contemptuous smirk.

Slavers were the worst kind of filth, trafficking in misery. Elves were crammed a dozen to a cage with as less consideration to their welfare than most people would have given cattle or swine. It was no surprise their biggest importer was his old land, Tevinter, and he briefly wondered if he'd ever been one of those terrified, pale, tear streaked faces behind bars. Had his wrists and ankles been chafed with cold cuffs and chains as he was dragged to Danarius for whatever whims or experiments the blood mage devised? Did he have parents who died in slavery? Were they free people who mourned him because he was taken away, or were they the ones who sold him? Was he born as a slave? They were all questions which came unbidden and unwelcome when he'd located the men he was looking for. Now the vermin thought he could buy his liberty with profit from the exact trade Fenris had escaped only months before.

The elf’s fist pierced light leather armor with as little resistance as water, sliding through bone as the brands on his skin glowed faintly. It made him a target in the black of the night, but that was an insignificant side effect. The lyrium hummed painlessly, pulling on the Fade until he was riding the crest of both worlds. Part of his body phased almost intangible then returned solid at will, making him a uniquely prized creation. His fingers closed once they were solid, and with a cold, precise yank, he extracted the faintly pulsing organ. The fool died with a look of bewildered shock. Most of them expired with the same expression, Fenris observed blandly as he wiped his hands on a rag from his belt pouch.

Almost invariably, desperation won when cowards and thieves knew death had come for them. They thought their mewling or bartering could win them liberty by telling everything they knew. It was convenient at times, but a nuisance when he needed to move on quickly to another city. They were hard people who owed no loyalties to their employer except what coin could buy, so their deaths were light on his conscience. When he got what he needed from them, he made certain they wouldn’t run back to Danarius, hoping for more gold cascading into their palms by bearing tales about “escaped property.” Once, early in his freedom, Fenris had shown kindness, releasing a terrorized, injured man in the naive belief he'd run away. The former slave had proven himself the better warrior, so why would the beaten man linger? It was a mistake only made once, and when the mercenary returned with more weapons and men, he'd killed them all. Better to save himself the effort and keep things neat, without any possible problems to clean up later.

Impassively, Fenris watched the body fall to his feet in disjointed heap. Leaning down, he tore a relatively clean sleeve from his attacker with a few jerks. Watching his surroundings warily, he wiped away the blood from his sword and pondered his next journey. The hunt would take him to Kirkwall and money would be necessary for both the passage and hired help. Necessity and survival made him who he was, but he’d already concluded that he would not run forever. Danarius called him his “little wolf,” but dogs lay docile at a master's feet, wagging their tails for scraps. Wolves had teeth, spurning commands and the collar. Dogs obeyed. Wolves hunted. Fenris would not be anyone's property or dog ever again. Taking the offensive, he would eventually hunt down and destroy his former master with the very brands Danarius tortured into his flesh.

A barely audible sigh slipped over his lips as blood pooled under his bare toes, and he began going through the pockets of the man who he had just killed. Coins glinted briefly before they vanished into Fenris' pockets. A ring and necklace of some value could be sold, but he unfolded a piece of parchment. Only elven eyes would have been sharp enough in the darkness to barely see the lines, dashes and curves which represented writing. Not knowing if it was upside down or not, much less what it said, he started to cast it aside. He'd learned what he needed from the blubbering fool, and hoped that was all the mysterious writing represented. If there was someone who he trusted, Fenris could have allowed them to find any written orders, learning what they meant second hand. Working alone for the night, he didn’t have that option, so the parchment was useless. He stopped before crumbling up the frail sheet into a ball, and as it made a crinkling sound, he turned it over. The back was blank, except for a blood drop on one corner, and oddly inviting. Smoothing it down carefully over his thigh, he imagined putting a sharpened charcoal stick to it, and letting his hand wander. There were times he could almost touch his dreams when he poked at the dirt with a stick to make shapes, and wondered if they could be elusive memories, instead. Could he recall the wisps of smoke which made up his past if he drew them?

Kicking the bodies over the edge of the pier with the ball of his foot, he didn't stay long enough for the splashes to draw attention. Armor would pull them down and when they surfaced, even if enough of them was left to be recognized, he doubted anyone would care enough to come looking for them. The way he killed was the leader was unique, however, and he didn't want rumors to circle back to Danarius. Any advantages he made for himself were coveted, particularly his whereabouts. Danarius was many things, but he was not stupid. Magisters of the Tevinter Imperium who were fools did not rise to power or prestige, and Danarius had both.

The lithe, strong form of the elf ghosted through the shadows and back to the inn where he had taken a room. With the hour of the night, there weren't any patrons left to wonder at traces of blood which lingered on his armor, face, or hair. Once he stripped to the waist and cleaned his armor, all of that was washed away in a basin. Using the fireplace, he set several thin kindling sticks alight for candles arranged next to the piece of parchment, then blew them out. Flipping the page over almost contemptuously, he put his thumb against the blank, top corner. Why should he need to read? There were always ways around the inconvenience. Jobs were easy enough to be had with loose tongues and boasting between others when he knew how to listen. He could watch, anticipate, and learn without ever having to resort to scribbles. The magisters might need it to catalog their foul spells and experiments, but what had it ever done for him? He could think of nothing, but his green eyes lingered over the pale yellow page. He could teach himself something much better than reading, and the skill was a universal language.

The door was barred, the window shuttered, and the room was pleasantly warm when he sat. For a brief distraction, he contemplated the patterns of his brands, branching over his chest, down his hands, and twining around his fingers. Without any patience for introspection, he picking up one of the wooden stubs which were burned to charcoal, he made a tentative curve. It was crude, at first, but he let his mind wander aimlessly wherever it would the same as when he drew in a spare patch of earth. Something began to gradually take shape, although he had no prediction or plan for what he intended it to be. There were times when he did, and deliberately tried to mimic the things or people around him with the same steady hand which could extract a man’s heart. Putting things on paper appeased a nameless desire to create something uniquely his own to keep, which was a rare treasure to a slave.

At first, his squiggles and paltry attempts had been as unrecognizable as they were temporary when he drew things with a long stick, sitting idle to think or wait. With practice, he found himself sculpting the scratches into distinct shapes, and it was easier with charcoal. This time, a woman's face was emerging with tapered ears and large eyes. It was an elf who he remembered more sharply as he tried to make details come out with her expression. She worked in the city, taking in laundry for her mistress, helping wash and hanging it out to dry. When he was walking past her, she had been startled and blurted out a question, asking him if he was Dalish because of his tattoos. It was a ridiculous, ignorant assumption, but she was young. How would she have known what an insult it would have been to the Clans if they would have overheard it? Not deigning to answer, he had pushed on without more than a longer glance than he usually gave anyone.

Her youthful dimples appeared on his sketch, but they didn't feel like they were in the right place. He didn't know why, but he thought they should be closer to the corners of her mouth. When he moved them by a flick of his wrist and the rough whisper of charcoal against parchment, he was more satisfied. Most people wouldn't have recognized her from his drawing, but it didn't matter. The creation appeased something, perhaps because it made up for the inadequacy of being able to read. With the ability to draw, he stubbornly decided he didn’t need education.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris meets Hawke and sees her through the eyes of an artist.

“I don’t know who you are friend, but you made a serious mistake coming here.” The words came out with sneering, cocky menace. From his vantage point, Fenris could see the flickering tip of the speaker’s shadow, but not his audience. It was surely the people Anso had found for the job. “Lieutenant,” he barked, and the shadow pivoted slightly, “I want everyone in the clearing!”

The elf’s greatsword slashed the throat of the lieutenant before he could give warning, not going as deeply as it could have. The angle was wrong, and the tip of the blade caught, slicing through the leather neckguard instead of severing the throat. Life ran out in a torrent of red. Gurgling, the mercenary’s lurched, wove unsteadily, then slipped in his own blood. Fenris let him go long enough to glance expressionlessly over his shoulder at the litter of other corpses which were previously people who opposed him. Many hunters had come for him since his escape, but these were different. He’s specifically lured the group out, and he needed to know more.

Shuffling in a haze of death, the lieutenant gave a last death rattle. “Captain….” He would have said more, but knees folded, refusing to support the dead weight of the man’s body.

Fenris calmly padded in the wake of blood, and his footing was sure with thin soles and bare toes. Flecks of red splashed warm over his armor, but his sword was sheathed across his back when he stood in front of the strangers. His voice rung with grim conviction, every inflection strong, calm, and steady as steel. “Your men are dead, and your trap has failed.” His long legs descended the staircase with the willowy grace of a tiger on the hunt, tautly ready to attack if a weapon was turned on him. “I suggest running back to your master while you can.” If Fenris was correct, Danarius himself could be flushed out of hiding, and it would be the last time he had to run. A nomadic lifestyle didn’t cause him discomfort, but he occasionally wondered what a stable, stationary life would be like. As long as his former master breathed, he’d never know.

Focused on the woman who was leading a younger woman and dwarf, Fenris was delayed half a second by the Captain’s remark as it was spat at the elf’s back. “You’re going nowhere, slave!”

A greedy, demanding hand fell onto an elven shoulder, digging fingers into armor. Large green eyes twitched, and Fenris instantly defended himself with cold, contained fury. No one touched, leashed, or shackled him. Not any more. His markings flared brightly, and he whirled, plunging his fist through a beating heart. It burst before talon gauntlets punched through the back of ribs. “ _I am not a slave_ ,” he stated with angry, bold finality as the captain died. Fenris withdrew his hand, and caught movement from the tail of his eye.

Bethany let out a tiny gasp, and had gone pale as she edged closer to Varric. Their leader didn’t seem as concerned and muttered something out of the corner of her mouth to the dwarf which sounded like, “Just when I thought I’d seen everything in Kirkwall.” She didn’t appraise him with fear, but he could feel her interested gaze float briefly over him.

Varric chuckled and muttered back in an equally light tone, “Never a dull moment with you, Hawke.” Neither of them showed any outward signs of fear in spite of his unusual method of execution, but all were mildly wary.

She was … not what he had expected, and softened him enough to say, “I apologize. When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they’d be so numerous.” If that was actually what he was asking her pardon for or not, he wasn’t exactly sure. He’d felt he needed to say something, and it was true there were more people than he’d expected. The thugs also had the foresight to split themselves into two groups, which he hadn’t foreseen, and her small trio had to deal with one faction alone. None of them looked wounded, but he had been lucky Anso found someone with skill, or there would have been more bodies of over zealous blades for hire who had more enthusiasm than talent littering the streets. He didn’t face her longer than it took to deliver the words, and turned away, watching the darkness which was barely broken by moonlight and guttering torches.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Marian rolled off with flippance as she admired his long legs, narrow waist, wide shoulders, and nice fit of tight armor on his hips. Part of it was a leather jerkin of some sort which covered part of the more interesting rear view. That was a pity. She was sure Varric noticed and probably wanted to say something, but she was standing with dripping dual daggers. Smart man was their silver tongued dwarf, and didn’t taunt her. “We do this sort of thing often,” she dismissed airily with a wave of one wrist, imitating the mockery of manners which she and seven year old Carver perfected by disdainfully pretending to be fine Orlesians without a grain of sense. An unexpected pang poked her as she remembered where the silly affectation had come from, but memories of her dead brother were becoming easier to live with while time trampled the wound numb. Besides, there was a nice looking elf in front of her who skewered people. Now there was something worth thinking about, wasn’t it? “It was nothing, really.”

“Impressive,” Fenris commented sedately, and decided to turn around. “My name is Fenris. These men were imperial bounty hunters, seeking to recover a magister’s lost property. Namely myself. They were trying to lure me into the open and, crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone. Thankfully,” he gestured toward her amiably, “Anso chose wisely.”

“I’m Hawke, with an ‘e’ on the end. Not to be confused with the bird.” She twitched a lopsided smirk and tilted her head almost playfully. She was surprised no one had revived that old joke which she heard once in awhile in Ferelden, getting called Sparrow, Jay, other bird names when people thought they were being witty. She idly noticed his eyebrows were dark in contrast to his shocking white hair. His eyes were what really capped off the whole package, however, with a green which she could see even in the dim light. They certainly didn’t make these back in Ferelden, and she was almost convinced playing Dodge the Templars for Bethany would be worth it if there were a few more like him wandering around. At least it was a much better view than the grubby walls of Gamlen’s hovel. Getting back to the point of their conversation, she wiped her blades on a rag. “That’s a lot of trouble to go through for one slave.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “it is.”

She wasn’t ready to let it stop there, particularly when she was getting too much enjoyment out of the excuse to study him. He’d actually flared up in a glow for a few seconds, or the veins etched on his body had. The question begged to be asked where they stopped when they wound their way up underneath his armor, but even she had more tact than that. Most of the time. She wouldn’t want to embarrass good old Uncle Gamlen with scandalous rumors of her flirtations, now would she? With an amused inner snort, she gestured to a bare place on one of his arms. “Does this have something to do with those markings?”

Fenris hesitated for half a heartbeat, raising his elbow to look down at himself. “Yes. I imagine I must look strange to you. I did not receive these markings by choice, but even so, they have served me well. Without them, I would still be a slave.” Her attention was on him longer than was necessary, and he assumed that was the reason. People often stared, giving him even more reason to avoid casual mingling.

“I wouldn’t say strange, precisely.” She nonchalantly stowed one of her daggers behind her back and began cleaning the other one with slow, precise swipes which were probably considerably slower and much more precise than they really needed to be. “I’d have to say that they’re an interesting addition to an already handsome elf.”

Fenris blinked, thoroughly disarmed, and chuckled nervously. Lifting a fist to cough into it, he smiled fitfully and decided to keep going. He wasn’t sure exactly what to say to that, so stayed with the rest of the topic. “My former master is a Tevinter mage and doesn’t want me at all, only the markings on my skin. They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power that Danarius required of his,” he came dangerously close to spitting the last word, “pet. Now he wishes his precious investment returned. Even if he must rip it from my corpse.”

Marian’s eyes danced with mischief as she put her second dagger away, but refrained from other innuendos which were dying to tumble off the tip of her tongue. “So Anso’s job never existed?” Pleasant distraction that he might be, she still needed the gold to wave under Bartrand’s stubborn nose so he’d let them in on the Deep Roads expedition.

“Not entirely. Your employer was simply not who you believed.” It was a low trick, but no harm had come from it.

Instead of getting angry, she sighed with a pert smirk and half a laugh. “Anso’s job did seem a little too easy.”

“Perhaps the deception was unnecessary. If so, I’m sorry.” He was apologizing more than he usually would have, but something compelled him to try and explain himself. “I’ve become too accustomed to hiding. If I may ask, what was in the chest?”

Reaching up to scratch a flake of dried blood from beneath her nose, Hawke nearly had to chomp down on her bottom lip to keep from making a comment about a very different chest on her body. He might come see for himself, for instance. Instead, she behaved so she wouldn’t make him start squirming again. “It was empty.” Unlike the one connected.

“I suppose it was too much to hope for.”

Not really, when someone was that handsome. It didn’t hurt that she imagined he was good at swinging that big blade he was carrying with him, either. She knew better than to say that out loud around Varric. She’d already noticed he had a penchant for swapping stories, and didn’t particularly want to end up supplying the lines for some torrid Orlesian romance told in dark tavern corners.

Oblivious to Hawke’s inner running monolog, Fenris eyes’ cut downward and continued. “Even so, I had to know.”

“You were expecting something else?” She certainly was, but obviously her random ruminations were getting her nowhere. Legitimately curious, she waited patiently.

“I was,” he admitted heavily, “but I shouldn’t have. It was bait, and nothing more.”

“So all of that for a cold, empty chest?” she asked innocently. The scuff of Bethany’s shoes behind her meant her sister was starting to pick up on the innuendos. Well, what of it? It wasn’t as if any of them had any time for social lives while frolicking through Ferelden to keep the family mages out of templar clutches. Farm boys behind the barn with stolen kisses and empty promises weren’t particularly fulfilling, and it hadn’t gotten better since their flight overseas to Kirkwall. It had actually gotten worse considering so many of the refugees would sell a tumble for two coppers to rub together. “Seems like a waste of time,” she decided to both the trip for the chest and the latter, private thought.

Fenris had crouched down beside the body of the captain, and unbuckled pouches, going through them. “No,” he drew out a folded piece of parchment with a wax seal which had been broken. “There’s more.” What the letter actually stood for was a complete mystery, but he recognized the crest. A crude map was drawn on it which took him a few seconds to puzzle out because the labels couldn’t help. As he tugged a chain from around the man’s neck, he also flicked out a bronze medallion cast with an identical mark on it. They were Danarius,’ close to him rather than mere bounty hunters tempted by the reward of hauling him back to his master’s feet. Fenris put much more conviction behind his next words than he actually felt, covering the fact he couldn’t read the letter he pretended to look over before tucking it into his pouch. “It’s as I thought. My former master accompanied them to the city. I know you have questions, but I must confront him before he flees.”

“So,” Hawke asked with bright nonchalance as if she were interested in the weather, “are we going Danarius hunting?”

“He wants to strip the flesh from my bones, and has sent so many hunters that I’ve lost count. Before that, he kept me on a leash like a Qunari mage. I was a personal pet to mock Qunari custom. So yes,” he glowered with a grim, ferocious set to his brows, “I plan turning to face the tiger.”

Well then, they couldn’t have just anyone stripping Fenris when she wasn’t allowed to. “It looks like it’s going to be a long night.”

“I will find a way to repay you, I swear it.” That odd glint of humor returned to her blue eyes, but the need for making Danarius pay for what he’d done didn’t leave him time to wonder about Hawke.

“Are you sure about this?” Bethany whispered as they fell back, keeping Fenris in sight, but hoping he wouldn’t overhear. “This is a Tevinter mage we’re thinking about attacking.”

Although she wouldn’t have said it aloud, Marian wished Carver had been with them. He was always more reckless than Bethany, and Maker keep his soul, that had been what got him killed. Even so, he and his twin provided two sides to the same scale, balancing one another. Having to hide for so long just to keep from being put into a veritable prison, Bethany was always the more quiet, timid one. Losing their brother had made her even more withdrawn, if stiffening her backbone. It would do no good to bring him up and remind them of the still aching loss, so Marian simply said, “I’ve got you and Varric along. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Don’t say that.” She might have been thinking of Carver too, because her expression was paler and more haunted that she’d ever been in Lothering. “Joking comes so easily to you, but this could be serious. You know what Father and the Chantry always told us about the Tevinters. We could be facing very dangerous and unknown magic.”

Why were all the templars anal, mage collecting people with a stick shoved up their arse? Hawke wondered rhetorically. They could have used one right then to unleash their fearful abilities on this Danarius. If only they could borrow one then put it back into a box for return to the Chantry doorstep. That would have made life ever so much easier. “We’ll also have Fenris along with us. He can obviously take care of himself. I looked around the corner and there were at least a dozen more of those bounty hunters. He must have killed them all by himself. Besides,” she tried to comfort her sister, but she’d never been particularly good at that, “he knows this man. He escaped from him, so he’ll know how to fight him. Just stay back with Varric and release a few spells of your own. We’ll be fine.”

“Don’t worry, Sunshine,” Varric backed Hawke up as he patted his crossbow, “Bianca and I will be right beside you. Nothing to worry about.”

“Come on, let’s hurry or we’ll lose Fenris.” Or worse, the gangs who liked to patrol any street after dark would start seeping out of the sewage to try and take advantage of anyone wandering around. Walking more quickly, Hawke caught up to their unusual “employer” to find him eyeing the doors and windows of a dilapidated mansion.

“There are a few lights shining inside, but I’ve heard nothing within. Danarius may know we’re here. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Prompted by Bethany’s concern, Hawke decided a few minutes loitering “innocently” under the hanging vines couldn’t hurt. “I could stand to know a bit more about this Danarius before we go in.”

“In Tevinter, he is a wealthy mage with great influence. Here,” Fenris pointed toward the mansion, “he is a man who sweats like any other when death comes for him.”

That wasn’t promising, but Marian shrugged as she brushed a tendril of greenery out of her face. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“I do not fear death,” Fenris stated, but the expressions on the rest of their faces encouraged him to add, “but that does not mean we should be reckless.”

“Not reckless is good,” she agreed sanguinely. The front door was locked and trapped, but Marian had seen how Fenris had reacted when the very dead man touched him. Unsheathing a dagger, she held the flat parallel in front of his chest. “You might want to let me have a look at that first.” She could see the wire from where she was, but her particular brand of training made her look for those sorts of things. He relented and she overcame both the lock and trap with a few minutes of patience.

Once inside, Fenris whipped out his sword and shouted to the decay, dust, and rooms, “ _I am not afraid of you, Danarius!”_

Exasperated, Hawke flinched as she tugged her weapons out. “If this is what you consider ‘not reckless’ I’d hate to see you _trying_ to get into trouble.”

He never had the opportunity to respond to her quip because demons began hauling up out of the floor. Most supernatural looked the same to Hawke, so she’d started mentally assigning them names. Hotheads were the ones which she hated most because they threw out molten streams of flame. They looked almost like they were made from living fire and were some of the most dangerous. Fashion Disasters popped out in tattered, ratty cloaks which were worse than the mage hats she’d caught glimpses of on people selling herbs down in the courtyard for the Gallows. They were deadly too, but didn’t play with fire the same way. Then there were the ones her father had always warned Bethany about, but Hawke hadn’t seen, yet. They were desire, lust, or other things which required them to have long, thick horns and erect tails. Malcolm hadn’t put it quite like that, but Marian filled in the blanks.

It was almost a public service to put down the Fashion Disasters, and she went to it with just as much of a will as Fenris, Varric, and Bethany. The new elf fit well into their little group, and she couldn’t help but admire the fact that having him at the front with Varric’s arrows and Bethany’s spells behind made them a very good team.

Somewhere in a lull, Fenris shouted a taunt about Danarius sending spirits to do his fighting for him. “Danarius, can you hear me? Your pets cannot stop us!”

If she was going to keep him, Hawke was going to have to have a word with him about the meaning of stealth. In the end, it didn’t actually do harm, and they dodged a Hothead who tried to hide in the middle of everything. Varric almost got singed, but managed to flatten in time for Bethany to throw a freezing spell onto the demon, immobilizing it long enough for Hawke and Fenris to send it back to the Fade. Something they hadn’t seen yet popped up which Marian didn’t readily have a name for. She’d ask Varric about it later, but whatever it was, it was extremely ugly. It also used spells she would have rather not know about when her ribs were almost crushed in an invisible trap, and she’d love to avoid in the future.

Bruised, bloody, and a little charred, they cut their way through most of the mansion room by room and chest by chest until Marian finally found a key wrapped in a moth eaten scarf. “This looks like it might fit the doors to those the upper rooms we couldn’t get into.” By that time, they were all tired of the spike of terrified excitement which came every time they flung open a new door, the relentless fights with the fade spirits, and never finding their elusive mage. “This place is beginning to look like nothing but a gigantic trap, but we should check those rooms. They’re the last ones, and if he’s anywhere still in this place, it has to be there. It doesn’t have a basement.”

All of them ready to spring, and Bianca leveled, they cautiously unlocked and pushed in the door. It looked as if it had actually been inhabited, but a quick sweep of the large wardrobe and beneath the bed showed that no one was currently at home. Danarius hadn’t left behind personal effects, clothing, or anything else which suggested he’d be back, and Hawke sighed aloud for Fenris’ sake. “He was here. This room has fresh ink spots on the table and the bedding is new.”

“Gone,” Fenris agreed, hanging his head with something other than battle fatigue and pushing back his hair. “I’d hoped,” he looked up with a half sigh escaping him. “No. It doesn’t matter any longer. I assume Danarius left valuables behind. Take them if you wish, but I …” he turned away and began toward the door. “Need some air.”

Hawke let him go then glanced around at the chests which were almost begging to be popped open. “You know, it almost feels wrong, being invited to rob something.” Not that it stopped her. There was an expedition to fund, after all, and she tucked a few trinkets into her belt pouches.

“I wish we didn’t have to rob anything,” Bethany muttered wistfully, but helped sort through things as Varric picked one of the other locks.

Once Marian was satisfied they’d sufficiently divided the few spoils which they could find, they rejoined Fenris beneath the moon and tangles of green vine. “It never ends,” he commented as he leaned with one foot resting against the wall. “I escaped a land of Dark Magic only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul, and now, I find myself in the company of even more mages.” He turned toward Bethany, pushing away from the building, and stalked toward her.

“You can speak to me directly.” Bethany kept her chin up and her staff stowed, but Hawke edged closer to her, closing ranks.

“I saw you casting spells inside. I should have realized sooner what you really were. You harbor a viper in your midst,” Fenris cautioned Marian. “It will turn on you and strike you when you least expect. That is in its nature.”

He’d gone too far, and Hawke superimposed herself between Fenris and Bethany. “My sister is stronger than you think.”

“You tell him, Sis.” Bethany was more pleased than Marian had heard her sound in months, but they were, after all, what was left of a family.

“I am not blind,” Fenris argued mildly. “I know there are undoubtedly mages with good intentions, but I know even the best intentioned mage can fall to temptation. Then their power is a curse to inflict upon others.”

“No one is stopping you from moving on, you know,” Bethany pointed out reasonably with some heat.

Fenris was caught for a moment by the spray of green dangling behind Hawke as it swayed in the light wind. Again, he found himself relenting, which wasn’t something he often did. “I imagine I must appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize,” for the third time in one evening. “Nothing could be further from the truth. I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt.” He pulled out a hefty coin purse and placed it into Hawke’s waiting hand. “Here is all I have, as Anso promised. Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly render it.”

“Are you going to have a problem with my sister?” The offer of extra help was tempting, but not at the price of having him constantly harass Bethany.

“I will watch her carefully if we travel together, but I can promise no more.”

Hawke would have much preferred him to be watching her for an entirely different reason, but family was first. “I am planning an expedition I might need help with,” she allowed neutrally.

“Fair enough.” Fenris took the small peace offering for what it was and gestured an open hand toward her. “Should you have need of me, I will be here. If Danarius wishes his mansion back, he is free to return and try to claim it. Beyond that,” he gave her a little bow, “I am at your disposal.”

“A little white wash, uproot a few mushrooms, and sweep out the dead bodies? I’m sure it will be nearly homey.” Marian was hardly one to talk, considering Gamlen surely hadn’t scrubbed the floors since their place was built.

Fenris didn’t respond more than to glance over his shoulder at her, catching another glimpse of green surrounding dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. They parted ways, and when he went inside, the huge mansion seemed oddly more empty than it had moments before. He didn’t need anyone or the complications it would mean in his life, and he prowled through the kitchen to see if anything had been left in the larder. Food for a few days remained, and a large collection of finest wines. That held the most interest, and he took one of the lesser bottles, wiping the dust off with the flat of his hand to look at the label. With narrowed eyes, he pulled a cork out with his teeth and began stalking through the moldering rooms. The remains of a curtain burned to the rod and floated to the floor as black flakes. There was no need to put a bedsheet or anything else to obscure anyone from seeing in the window. There were neighbors, but none of them facing that side, so he left the cinders where they fell. There was something more important which he was interested in, and he knew he’d find parchment if he bothered looking.

The mouth of the bottle tipped up against his lips, wetting them, and he tilted it higher. With a long drink rolling hot down the back of his parched throat, he rummaged through some of the chests which he’d noticed contained the precious sheaves of blank pages when they’d been searching for the key. Danarius had left behind sharpened quills and ink in the bedroom, as well. He’d graduated to them from the blackened charcoal sticks when he’d been able to afford the ink, and sat down with bottle and feather. Stripping is gauntlets off, he stared at the back of his hand moodily for a moment before tackling the the empty expanse of parchment. Dipping the quill, he carefully kept from dripping even a precious drop, letting the drink ply his thoughts and wander where they wanted.

He could still see her, haloed in green and moonlight as she stared at him as few women had, and when they did, he couldn’t linger. Life was built of running, hunting, running again, and eventual destruction of the one man who every path always came back to. The tip of his sharpened quill quivered, but didn’t move nearer to the parchment. Never once did he allow himself to draw Danarius’ hateful visage, in spite of how vividly it was burned into him, fouling everything with cursed magic. He’d also never sketched other pieces of his history which he kept locked away where they were exclusively his own hurt, shame, or rage. His drawing wasn’t meant for more pain, but to help him escape it for a little while.

The green kept pulling him back, with Hawke’s hair barely stirring across her forehead and the startling eyes which caught the moonlight. She was a beautiful woman, and the heel of his hand relaxed as the lines began to form into the shape of her nose, lips, cheekbones and eventually her eyes. Someday he’d try to find a way to add color. He’d seen the Magisters pen things in things other than black, inscribing their spells in blues, reds, greens, and combinations of them. What the purpose any of it served had never been shared with mere slaves, but he suspected they were mixes of crushed berries, soft stones, or plants ground on pestles.

As the long scoop of Hawke’s neck ended at her shoulder, he resolved himself to finding a way to frame her in green.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris vs. words as Hawke begins teaching him his ABCs so he can learn to read.

It began with the book she gave him and a confession he didn’t know how to read.

Fenris’ brows furrowed over the bridge of his nose as he quietly watched Hawke spread numerous pages, books, and parchments over the table in front of him. It was all as inexplicable as it had been before she’d promised to teach him, and he couldn’t conceive how all the squiggles would somehow come together to make any sense. Laying a crisp sheet of vellum down in front of both of them, Hawke pulled a chair close at his side. Picking up one of the books, he stared at it, as if doing so would allow him to fathom the mystery. “Are each of these a word?” he asked, pointing to the first, embellished letter at the top of the page. It took up an entire corner, looking prominent, so he thought it might be the beginning of the story. “How much does this one say?”

"That’s only one letter.” No pity or impatience shaded her response, and Fenris had proven himself surprisingly patient with tasks when he truly wanted to be. Sebastian would have been a much better choice for a tutor than she, but telling someone else would have meant betraying Fenris’ secret. It wasn’t her place to tell any of the others he couldn’t read, particularly how well he’d managed to hide it for several years already. “It’s the letter T, and it’s starting the word THE. You see, this is the H, and that’s an E. My father taught us how to read while scratching letters in the dirt, so I may not be the best teacher. I was much more interested in throwing mud pies at the other boys and girls than I was learning my letters.”

Fenris tried to imagine her as a gangly teenage girl with homespun frocks and pigtails. It surprised him how easily he was able to, along with the image of her hurling platters of mud. If he was ever allowed to play, he couldn’t remember, and his hand almost began automatically to sketch as he picked up a quill. Mastering the urge, he rolled the quill between his fingertips instead. “I see all of them repeat many times on the page,” he observed, “but they are ordered very differently.”

“You’re a much quicker study than I was,” she complimented, giving his thigh a friendly bump with hers. “You’re catching on quick. Yes, it’s all about how we arrange the letters. That’s what allows us to read. You see the patterns like here. M-A-N. When those letters are together, it means a man. Every time you see M-A-N together again, you’ll automatically think it. You see?”

Peering at the three letters, he committed them to memory, but the page was littered with similar symbols, particularly the A. Even more would appear on more pages, and how was he ever going to be able to remember all of it at one time? How did anyone? “There are the letters H and E again, but the one in front does not look the same.”

“No, no it wouldn’t. That’s because one is uppercase and one is lower. You’re getting too far ahead of yourself.” She put her hand over his and gently squeezed the fleshy part of his thumb for encouragement. Listening to him was enough to tell anyone that he was not stupid, and he was far better spoken than any Ferelden elves who she’d met. They were usually servants to someone like the smith or fetching items in the markets for a rich lord or mistress. Fenris’ words were often more eloquent than her own, giving him the sound of someone with tutelage beneath a scribe. It was always possible that he had an education and couldn’t remember it, but it would take him an age to learn anything if he started in the middle. “Let’s begin with the letters themselves. Once you learn that, the rest will be easier. First there is the A.” She made the triangle with legs on it, then showed him the lowercase version. “A large one is used at the beginning of sentences or names. There’s other times, too, when something is important.” Pausing pensively, she had to shrug. “If you really want to know why, you’ll have to ask Sebastian or Varric. I honestly have no idea, but that’s what Father told us. It has several different sounds, depending on what’s around it.” Fenris’ lip ticked uncontrollably at the corner as she mouthed out the exaggerated versions of sounds. “It isn’t funny.” The words were a lie as she broke into a laugh, cupping her hands over her brows. “Fine, it is funny, but come on then, you do it. Practice writing big the big and small A.”

Using a quill was natural to him, although he’d disdained writing when he’d begun to draw. Now he was seeing them as not being completely removed from one another. The scratchy quill strokes came easily, and he mimicked the letters no differently than he would have the lines of a building, face, or something which he was sketching. Sounding them out with more dignity than she had, he repeated after her, and by the end of the lesson, he was able to print at least half of the letters when she called them out to him.

By the end of the week, he’d mastered the alphabet and had begun to manage simple words, and by the end of the month, Varric was trying to get both of them to reveal sordid details about mad love making inside the mansion. The dwarf mentioned something about rickety walls and furniture as he stroked his beardless chin, hoping to draw Hawke out into saying something to contradict his version of the story. She didn’t fall into his traps and refused to take the bait.

More quickly than Fenris thought, he was reading rudimentary children’s books in the guttering light of the candles. Hawke had discreetly purchased some reading material at the market with coin he gave her, staying stubbornly independent. Both knew she would have made them a gift between friends, but he wanted no charity. Late into the night when the weary day of fighting and killing slowly seeped from his bones, he would clean himself and sit with a book filled with bright pictures and simple words across his lap. Scowling at them, he mentally worked the truncated words out in his mind first, then sounded out the longest and most difficult. It consumed most of his time when he wasn’t traveling with Hawke, but he would never forget the odd, amazing elation when he opened The Pond and actually understood the entire page. Ironically, the second sentence he read without assistance was “The pond is green.” Images formed in his mind as his eyes lingered over the letters, and he marveled silently at it.

When Varric’s tactics failed with Marian, he’d begun to work on Fenris, but pride made the elf keep a his lips tightly sealed.

“Not just a little hint what’s between you and Hawke?”

Fenris shook his head and stated the obvious. “She is a beautiful woman, nothing more. I am content as I am, and have no need of that kind of companionship.”

“Uh huh. You just keep telling yourself that,” Varric had cajoled. “There’s more going on here. I can feel it.”

When the reading lessons finally began to get regular interruptions by the Viscount’s errands, Fenris missed Hawke’s increasingly infrequent visits. She always returned to see how he was doing, bringing him more difficult books for practice and answering questions if he had them. Sitting down with him became less necessary as he worked through children’s books without assistance. The mansion had a gloomier, more decrepit air when she wasn’t at the table, filling the silence with her pleasant chatter. Too soon, they were back to fighting side by side when she needed him and he told himself that was better. It was a great favor to teach him to read, but once it was done, she had other things to occupy her time.

With less enthusiasm than he usually had, he went back to his drawing between books, but proudly signed his own name to the bottom corner each time he finished.


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rewrite of the romance scene between Hawke and Fenris with extra spicy content.

It had been so long, and Hawke stayed beside him, never judging his actions with anything worse than a quirked eyebrow and amused comment about mopping up messes. She had not feared him as many would have when he showed no mercy to his enemies, scorned him for being a former slave without status, or mocked him for his inexperience in a bedroom. Waiting patiently between the carnage and confusion of their lives, she’d kept a warm friendship alive, mingled with the frequent innuendo or flirtatious compliment. He’d come out and told her directly that she was beautiful, finally, and promised he would think about it. Neither of them clarified what “it” entailed or needed to, because he eventually found himself sitting on a couch which had the imprints of mabari teeth on the leg. Flexing his calloused toes up and down fitfully, his elbows rested on his knees, and he forced himself to sit still until Hawke finally came through the door. She burst in with a few choice words and hound at her side.

The only thing which prevented her from tossing all her bundles onto the floor and falling on her face was a rogue’s balance. “No. Really,” she argued with her mabari, “I don’t want to play right now. I ripped the hem out…” She halted abruptly, arms full of her market conquests, and shifted a sack of flour to one side for a better look. Her torn dress and the seamstress forgotten, she absently coaxed her hound, “Go on, boy.” The dog ambled obediently to his place in front of the fire as she slid the sack, mended armor, and sharpened weapons down into a convenient corner. “Fenris, is everything alright?”

Snapping to his feet like one of Sebastian’s released bow strings, Fenris flexed his fingers until the taloned gauntlets left imprints. Anxious as he was, the elf almost charged forward, going to Hawke with long strides and a confession. “I have been thinking of you. In fact, I have thought of little else.” If he hadn’t been staring at their feet, he would have tread on her shoes, and the warmth of her nearness hastened him to finish what he had come to say. “Command me to go, and I shall.” Reluctantly, but with steely reserve, his eyes slowly lifted to see her verdict.

Instead of sending him away, however, she brushed aside a lock of his stark hair from his brow and smiled. “Now why would I want to do that?”

Before his nerve collapsed, he swept her against him, finding her lips ready, full, and waiting against his. The curves of her toned body pressed tightly against his and she lifted herself to her toes, losing herself in the mutual kiss. “Fenris,” she finally managed, pulling back from him the smallest bit. “I want you to stay, and there’s to be no mistake about that. The gauntlets however,” she lifted one of his hands, thumb gently pressing in the cup of his palm, “have to go if we’re going to keep this up.”

The barest bit of a smile managed to pull on the corners of his mouth, working the way up into his eyes as he allowed her nimble fingers to find the buckles of his armor and slip them from his fingertips.

For all her attitude at plucking the nose of everything from the Viscount to the Arishok, Hawke had been paying attention when he’d confessed never remembering being with anyone else. It was possible there had been before his memory was ripped out of him during the despicable ritual his former master had put him through. If there was or wasn’t was immaterial. Fenris was seldom vulnerable, but she intuitively knew that this was one of the few, rare times when things needed to be taken seriously. If she pushed him the wrong way, she risked damaging his trust. “Would you like to continue, maybe somewhere more comfortable?”

“Yes,” he conceded without elaboration, and the conviction was just as plain as the low simmer of lust she could see between his creased brows.

“Well then, let’s make a scandal with the servants, shall we?” She tucked his arm comfortably under hers and leaned up to kiss him on the ridge of his handsomely tapered ear. “You know, I always did wonder just how far those marks of yours go underneath the armor.”

“Perhaps it’s time you found out, then.” As she always did, she put him at ease, making him feel welcome. Matching his pace with hers, he walked beside her up the staircase, pausing only once at the top of the banister to tangle themselves together in a long, yearning kiss. She lifted her leg to rub her thigh along the outside of his leg, brushing hip to hip in such a way which was full of promise. Every nerve tingled pleasantly.

The response was immediate, and her eyebrows danced up and down mischievously. Fingers entwined with his, she backed up the rest of the way, clutching one hand and loosening some strategic ties of her dress. Cloth slipped around her cleavage, giving him a view of the rounded tops of her breasts as they swayed in her small clothes. At least she was prepared for any emergency and was wearing something appropriately decorous for the occasion. It was actually her secret pleasure to like a little lace beneath all the leather and less appealing things when she was slogging through battles half the night and into the day for the sake of Kirkwall. It was for her rather than a lover, but now she was glad, allowing something for Fenris’s attention to linger over as they made it to the bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she ignored her mabari’s plaintive whine on the other side. “Not now,” she muttered, but he began trying to dig his way under the door, catching her already torn hem with his claws. With a depressing rip, the threads popped, and she scolded him soundly as she yanked the red scrap of cloth from beneath the door. “Well,” she conferred with an airy dismissal, tossing it over her shoulder. “At least I won’t need a seamstress. It’s nice being rich, even if the dog doesn’t appreciate it. Now, where were we?”

Interruption averted, she slipped her arms around Fenris’ neck and indulged in more flicks of his tongue tentatively across her lips as they drew together. “You,” she told him with a gentle tease, running her fingertip down the bridge of his nose, “are just entirely overdressed for this occasion, Messere.” Stopping with her fingertips on his lips, she kissed his chin, and put her rogue’s talents to work in unlacing every available strap through each stubborn buckle, unfastening the tough leather hides and tickling the inside of his elbow with his own feather adornments. “Mmm,” she whispered into his ear with playful seduction, “this is much better.”

Rolling his shoulders, Fenris slid his breastplate down his arms and she pushed his supple leathers behind his back to land with a muffle thump onto the carpet. Stripped to the waist, breath expanding the planes and lean lines of chest and shoulders, he climbed onto the bed, pausing in the center to make dents in the mattress with his knees. Her admiration lingered openly on his arms, neck, and the muscle wrapping his ribs. As she meandered farther down, it gave him an unexpected flush of pleasure. For the first time, someone wanted him not as a token to be paraded and owned. The choice was his, and she had craved him as much as he did her. It was obvious in the way she crawled the short distance up to him, the intensity of her gaze full of life, longing, and needs he hoped he’d be up to the task of fulfilling.

Snaking a hand around her hip, he drew her up against him again, allowing his hands to roam and her encouraging, soft, sensual moans against his mouth while they kissed. His hands parted fabric and found flesh, exploring the softness and contrast of rough or pulled places where she’d been scarred in the many brutal fights since she’d been forced to flee her homeland. His name purred in her throat, sending a long shiver down his back as she let her head hang backward a moment. Fully vulnerable to him, he experimentally kissed the front of her proffered neck, and was rewarded with a light shudder from her. Arching her back into him, he liked knowing what he did caused the small, helpless spasms of delight and worked the loose laces of her dress completely open. She showed him no shame nor hesitation, only hunger, prompting him to work folds of fabric over her head a little too hastily. A few ties hadn’t been completely loosened, and she had to flail until he came to the rescue. She didn’t mind when she fought free of it a few seconds later, smiling at him with her easy, gracious mirth. For a moment, his thoughts flitted to how he would draw her, trying to capture all the beauty in front of him, and knowing that if he did it a thousand times he’d never do her real justice.

“Don’t stop there,” she breathed earnestly, letting her fingertips make a haphazard trail from his jaw down the line of his chest. Stopping at his waistband, she kissed the corner of his lips, and moved a hand between his legs to awaken him. There wasn’t much work to do, so it became a supple caress with the heel of her hand.

“I don’t plan on it,” he stated with straightforward finality, feeling his breath getting more labored as her hands enticed. Freeing her breasts with a few gently tugged ties, she abandoned teasing him for quiet gasps of pleasure when his palms felt the stiffening of her nipples against them. Cupping the weight of her breasts, he brushed his thumbs against places he knew intuitively were pleasing her, and she put both hands on the side of his face.

Demanding, she kissed him hard, hot, and the last of her under clothes were shed to add to the haphazard pile of garments littering the floor. Their kissing escalated to panting, open mouths, devouring one another, and she more aggressively wandered from his lips along his cheekbone, and gradually calmed enough to slow down again. Catching the branch of one of his brands along the side of his throat with the tip of her tongue, she followed the path it made along his torso. When he flinched from the spiked tingle of pain, she glanced quickly up toward his face, and moved her attention to skin which hadn’t been etched. “Hawke,” he croaked hoarsely, and ecstacy mingled with a few pinpricks beneath her warm, damp, teasing tongue. It wasn’t unpleasant, but when she undid his trousers with her teeth and proceeded to show him some of the other talents she had with her tongue than bartering with merchants, he almost came unwound. His fingers tangled in her dark hair as he arched closer to her, and watched with erotic fascination. Bright eyes never left his, always laughing, while remaining lustful. Every stroke, engulfment of her mouth, or artful brush of her fingers escalated a nameless, building, almost agonizing need which he guessed would only find one resolution.

For a tense moment they had to kick off his pants, and then she opened herself to him completely. Pressed chest to breast and hip to hip, she wrapped her legs over his waist and joined him as intimately as two people could. Deep cries which he didn’t know came from his mouth or hers blended, and as they moved together, the ultimate release called him closer and closer. When his passion built, the brands tingled, twining around the pleasure of her hands, lips, and more erotic connection they were sharing. His name clutched in her throat as she bucked toward him, peaking, digging her fingers into his back, and tightening her legs to pull him deeper. He needed no coaxing, but stroke by stroke, nearing the height, shadows were unlocking in his mind. Memories flooded behind his closed eyes, and he could hear distinct words and voices attaching themselves to faces. His entire past opened up inside his mind as his release came, rattling shots of pain jabbed over his marks, and he remembered. The climax, need, or some variation of it had thrown open the tightly locked doors, and he remembered everything.

The tsunami evaporated before the sweat cooled on his back, leaving feeling painfully gutted, with fleeting glimpses of who he was forced to wonder were his parents, family, friends, and life before Danarius had lain the brands into him. There were other deeply troubling and shameful things, as well, tearing angry red furrows across his brain. Exhausted, he collapsed onto his back beside Hawke, and guilt shredded him as she curled up next to him. Sated and pleasantly tired, she sleepily nuzzled into his shoulder, and he squeezed his eyes closed. Pressing his lips against her damp crown, he let her rest even as he made his decision. If she would only sleep, then he could leave. It would be over and everything would be better for her. Perhaps the lost prince would finally leave his Chantry vows to bind himself to her in marriage or some other Marcher noble would make her happy in the ways he never could. Guilt, shame, and anger dug pits into his stomach. Hawke was a special, wonderful woman, and she deserved better than a killer with an incomplete, broken mind.

She drifted enough that he cautiously eased out of bed and was able to pull on his armor as quietly as possible. The door called to him with just a few steps, but couldn’t force himself away. She was laying so contentedly that he wanted to stare enough to take away one, last, perfect memory that he could keep when she hated him. Propping his hand above the mantle, he forlornly watched, heart paradoxically heavy and hollow at the same time. Turning away, he stared into the fire, eyes closed, wrapping up the past moment to keep forever. Perhaps he would at least try to draw her later, when he was hidden away in the mansion again.

His eye caught the bright red scrap which had been torn from the tail of her dress. Leaning over, he picked it up, running it through his hands and allowing himself to remember the sweet sounds and the way she felt beneath him. She’d been softer than any fabric, even as fine as the dress, and nothing could replace those wondrous moments when his name was the only thing she could coherently say. Wrapping the strip end over end, he knotted it firmly into place on his wrist so it wouldn’t slip, even in a fight.

Stirring, Marian propped herself onto her elbow and took note of her lack of clothing compared to his battle gear. “Was I that bad?” she prodded with humor in her voice. “I thought you were very good, but you’re not doing much for a girl’s ego, Fen.”

“I’m sorry,” he balked for half a breath, “it’s not – it was fine. No,” he corrected himself studiously, “that is insufficient. It was better than anything I could have dreamed.” The last was utterly sincere, but he couldn’t meet her gaze.

“Your markings,” she guessed from the way he shied from her touch while they were together, “they hurt, don’t they?”

Shaking his head dismally, he didn’t explain the way that the minor twitches that crawled along his flesh mingled almost pleasantly with the way she made him feel. With practice, he imagined he could control it the same way he was able to tap their power in battle. “It’s not that…” Staring at the floor, he paced away from her, insides tied up in sick knots. “I began to remember – my life before – it was just flashes. This is too much,” he lamented. “This is too fast – I cannot do this. I’ve never remembered anything from before the ritual but there were faces… words… For just a moment, I could recall all of it, and then it slips away.”

“That’s good then, isn’t it?” She asked earnestly as she swung her legs to sit on the edge of the bed, draped strategically in a sheet. “We can work through this, Fenris.”

He recoiled miserably, shoulders hunched, and head hung. “I’m sorry. I feel like such a fool. All I wanted was to be happy, just for … a little while.” His chin brushed his chest he walked away from her as if the weight of the city bore down his shoulders. “Forgive me.”

Too stunned and confused to call out after him, Hawke watched him go. She was up on bare feet by the time he’d left the bedroom, but bereft of clothes she didn’t know what she could do. It wasn’t as if she could tackle him on the stairs and make him talk. Freedom was everything to him, and there was no forcing him to do anything which he didn’t ultimately want. Angry, silent tears stung beneath her eyes and she swatted them away. The mighty Hawke didn’t cry, or so Varric’s stories would have said. She was a pillar of strength and bravery, but she knew that she really wasn’t either of those things. The great and glorious Hawke was heartbroken, and she wept silently into the corner of the sheet for a long time.


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric learns Fenris' secret passion for drawing.

Fenris cupped his cheek into his palm as he stared at the parchment in front of him, allowing his lines to meander into letters or tangled strings which didn’t look like anything specific. The weight of confusion and guilt was too heavy to let any fragile spark of inspiration ignite. Every time he thought of sketching, his mind took him back to Hawke, and how he had lost her. His free hand began to flex on the corner of one of the completed sheets as he stared into his poor representation of her, peering back at him with her mocking, laughing eyes. They didn’t look at him like that any more. After that night, her face showed him confusion, some anger, but at least it wasn’t pity. She’d come to hate him for what he had done soon enough, and it would be better for her. It was better for both of them, and she could go on with her life without him being a weight around her neck. He could forge forward and start the search for Danarius again, because as he wasn’t coming back to the old mansion. It hadn’t even been his, and belonged to some other Tevinter noble who had either left, been killed, or given up on the place. It had been so many years, Fenris already guessed his old master wouldn’t come calling so he could get the end he justly deserved.

Parchment crinkled, and his fingers let go like released springs. He should have just thrown all the drawings into the fireplace and let them burn. Why did he want to remember how hurt she was when he walked away? Why keep tokens of her only to torment himself? Clutching the edges of the entire sheaf of paper, he gazed into the fire, thinking about it, and imagining the tiny flames engulfing the yellowed paper in black curls. They wouldn’t be there to remind him any more, and he could move on. He should move on, but he was finding that he couldn’t.

Hawke had tried to visit him a few weeks after the disaster, but he didn’t answer the door. She knew he was there, and tossed pebbles at the windowpanes. Instead of going out to face her, he waited to see if she’d pick the lock on the door and come in anyway. It was just the kind of thing she would do, but after a half hour, she gave up and went away until the next attempt. It happened a few days later, while they were out on a job together. She gave him a beseeching, searching look, but he turned his shoulder toward her, shutting her out.

Much to his relief, she’d stopped trying after that. Their relationship was strained, but after a month and a half she showed up on his doorstep with a short pile of books. _Fenris, stop being so stubborn. Do you want to continue your reading lessons or not?_ It wasn’t a ruse, and she acted as if nothing had happened, helping him advance to a more difficult set of books with more complicated grammar structure.

Hawke was the biggest reason he hadn’t left the city, because as much as it puzzled him, she didn’t force him away. Somehow she maintained the friendship, and he didn’t want to lose that, too. Walking away might have been best, but Kirkwall had been a place where he’d made friends. He, Varric, and Isabela played Wicked Grace together in the Hanged Man regularly. Donnic dropped in for hands of Diamondback and easy conversation about the kind of work they both could understand. No one of judged him as a slave or asked anything of him, and he respected all of them. Danarius would die, but Fenris wanted something more tangible than the ice cold trails from Kirkwall before he left them all for good.

When a persistent knock kept at the door, he assumed it was Hawke, and tossed his drawings on top of his desk, tucking them beneath books and papers.

“Hey, Elf,” a voice called out with familiar jocularity, “open up. It’s cold out here, and if the rain gets any higher, Bianca might start to drown.” Muttering something else under his breath about puddles, Varric came straight in when Fenris gave him access. Shaking off his coat and stamping his feet, he blew vigorously into his hands to restore feeling. “So, you and Hawke?”

“You didn’t come all the way here to ask me about that did you?” Fenris sighed, wondering if it would be worth the effort to force him back out into the weather. He wasn’t that ill mannered, and it was easier to get the dwarf’s infernal curiosity out of the way before he drug it out in front of Hawke. It was obvious he’d been burning to ask the questions over the Wicked Grace table, but it was always easier to dodge the insinuations while everyone had cards in front of them. “What about us?”

“I want to make sure I get all the details right.” Completely undeterred, Varric took off his coat and shook some of the water out of it in front of the fire. He almost killed the sputtering flicks of orange, and satisfied himself by holding it up to face the warmth. “Did you sweep her off her feet, or was it the other way around?”

“I’m not telling you anything but this, there was no actual sweeping involved.” That was the start and end of anything Varric was going to get out of him “for his stories.” Fenris had no desire to be embellished into something he wasn’t for tavern tales, but if he didn’t supply Varric with something, everyone who traveled with Hawke knew that the dwarf would invent the details to suit the audience. That was unavoidable half the time as it was, and someone had once mentioned Hawke riding to Kirkwall on the back of a dragon.

Chuckling, Varric gave up on his coat and snaked a hand into the pocket. “Every little bit helps. You know, I just happened to have a remarkably fine bottle of Sunblonde Vint-1 fall into my hands by way of one of my favorite contacts at the docks. I thought we might share a few drinks and take the chill out.”

“I’m not telling you any more about Hawke and I,” Fenris grumbled, but stalked into his living quarters for glasses.

“You wound me!” Stamping water off his pant cuffs, Varric chuckled and made himself at home in a chair beside Fenris’ desk. “Do you think I’d actually come in here and try to ply you with drinks to get the whole story out of you?” Pulling the cork, he tsked and poured. “As if I didn’t have better ways.” That was a weak bluff, and both of them knew it, but Varric hadn’t come in wanting to start in an argument. “Here’s to being part of the story,” he offered, lifting his drink in a salute.

Fenris knew of the vintage and raised his own glass in amiable response, then took a generous drink. It something a slave would have served in Tevinter, and never tasted. The light liquor burned its way comfortably all the way down, hit his stomach, then spread pleasantly.

“You’re really not going to tell me any more, are you?” Varric prodded as he sipped conservatively and rocked the glass back and forth between his palms.

“No.” There were some matters which Fenris would not speak of, and he drained his glass, setting it on the table.

“Suit yourself.” The dwarf gave a long suffering sigh of mock indignation and poured Fenris another drink. As he set the bottle down, the bottom caught the corner of a piece of parchment which was smeared with ink. Fenris’ hands had traces on them, as well, and Varric lifted inquisitive eyebrows, smelling a story behind it. He’d never seen the elf take any interest in corresponding that he could remember. “What’s this?” He reached for them, hesitating with an inquiring look at his host, but wasn’t stopped from pulling out a few of the sketches at first, then more. “That’s Hawke and Sunshine,” he exclaimed, and stopped at the picture of Bethany with an twinge of regret. Fenris had captured her likeness with an uncanny clarity, and lain down thin, experimental layers of inks to make it look more lifelike.

“The tone of surprise,” Fenris joked dryly.

“You have to admit, this isn’t the first thing people think about when it comes to you.” Varric held up a portrait of himself beside his own rough stubble for comparison. Fenris saw many imperfections now that he had the living version in front of him, and his eyes flicked back and forth, pinpointing mistakes for the next time he’d draw Varric. The dwarf, not being aware anything was less than perfect, gushed with impressed amusement. “You even caught my best side. These are …” A storyteller never left dead space, and only short pauses for effect were acceptable. For a brief few seconds, Varric broke his own rule, because all he could pull out of his colorful vocabulary was, “amazing.” As he went back in older pictures, he saw less color and confidence. The hand was always steady, he supposed it would have to be for someone who could rip hearts out of people’s chests, but didn’t have the same easy lines as the recent, colorful ones. “Did you make a joke?” Almost too distracted to catch the flat humor, the dwarf admired several drawings of Isabela, Merrill, Donnic, Aveline, and halted abruptly at a very detailed depiction of Bianca. “You’re going to make me jealous of that one.” At least a quarter of them were of the woman who brought them all together. “Does Hawke know?”

“No.” Fenris’ heart throbbed twice in his chest before he added, making it a plea rather than an order. “Don’t tell her.”

Varric tore his gaze away from the wonders captured on flat sheets to look at Fenris. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why not, because it was his nature to horde events for future word crafting. Stopping himself, he thought about some of the ways Fenris and Hawke had been acting peculiar around each other lately. “All right,” he promised with a slow nod, “but lets make a deal. I don’t mention a word about this to Hawke, and,” he drew the thought out with relish, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “And,” he waited just another beat to Fenris’ deadpan stare, “you help me illustrate my book.”

Committing to nothing, Fenris asked warily, “you’re writing a book? About us?”

“Of course it is, about Hawke and all of us. Why not? She came from nothing, just another refugee staggering off the boats from Ferelden. Think of all the near misses we’ve had and all the excitement. There’s you, the escaped Tevinter slave, what happened to Sunshine when we were in the Deep Roads, how Hawke fought her way to have a place in Hightown, the way the Viscount asked for her opinions, the Qunari, a Prince who wants to take back his lands but can’t decide about it or staying at the Chantry, Aveline’s tragedy to a romance so awkward even I couldn’t make it up, an outcast Dalish, and Isabela. Now there’s someone with enough history to fill an entire volume. Think of the rescues, and everything which goes on in Kirkwall. I can bring it to life with words and you can do it with pictures.”

“That’s blackmail.” Fenris accused mildly.

“That,” Varric corrected as he pressed his fingertips together in a steeple in front of his lips, “is business.”

With a short sigh, Fenris didn’t see any way out, and yielded. “Very well. I’ll do it.”

“This, my friend,” the dwarf said with relish, “is the start of a lucrative partnership.”


	6. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris reveals his talents to Hawke for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so embarrassed. The end of this chapter was completely cut off and I didn't notice until the next day. It's correct, now.

It wasn’t necessary to take books to Fenris so he could learn to read any more, and he was nearly as proficient at it as Hawke, herself. Even with her obstinance, he believed he could have finally made her give up on him if he would have locked her out of that and ceased helping her with the tasks of the city. She hadn’t stopped, and every time he looked, she’d been there, still at his side. When Danarius wanted him back, she spat in the Tevinter lord’s face with such vehemence a new blister of guilt rubbed raw on his soul. When they confronted his sister, Hawke hadn’t let him kill her as he would have if she hadn’t been there. Never leaving him, even after three years of pretending their night together never happened, she remained. Three years and she hadn’t gone to Anders, Sebastian, Varric or a high town nobleman. The only living presence in her bed was the enormous mabari who was starting to slow down from age.

He had thought she would finally go or push him into a conversation which would make their separation final, but hadn’t.

“You don’t need to stay in this pit any more, you know.” Varric broke into his thoughts, and Fenris realized he hadn’t been listening. The dwarf had finally gotten all the events sewn together either from bits he’d pried out of Hawke when she was unsuspecting or guessed it. He kept his promise, claiming all the angst simmering made good flavor for the story. He was currently standing next a the wash of fire orange in Aveline’s hair, and hastened to add, “not that you haven’t … ah… fixed it up nicely.”

Aveline cut her eyes toward the dwarf so she didn’t roll them. “It’s falling apart, and,” she shifted her attention to Fenris, “my ability to keep the seneschal from noticing is nearing an end.”

“I appreciate what you’ve done.” Hawke wasn’t the only person he’d come to consider worth remaining in the city for, and he’d come to several important decisions in the past week. The time for deliberation was over.

“But you’re staying!” Varric wagged his head in disbelief, holding his hands out in front of him as if to ward off either obstinance or stupidity. “You could go anywhere now!”

“Perhaps I don’t wish to go anywhere.” Fenris didn’t stop either of them as they rose from their chairs and began toward the door Hawke was entering.

As she strolled past, Varric muttered, “Freedom must be a terrible burden, I guess.”

“Seems like you should be dancing for joy.” Cocking her head to one side, she drummed two fingers against her cheek in mock consideration. “Didn’t you mention you did that in your spare time once? I would have paid to see that.”

Reaching across to take the stack of books she offered him, Fenris ignored the last part. “I would have thought it meant happiness. I thought if I didn’t need to run and to fight to stay alive I would finally be able to live as a free man does.” Opening the cover, he noticed she had inscribed it, as she often did, with phrases of encouragement or some large, unfathomable word he would have to sound out before she explained what it meant. They had all been less personal and more frosty after that night three years ago, but she still did it. The book on top said ‘Your reading taste is improving.’ “But how does someone live freely? My sister is gone, and I have nothing. Not even an enemy.”

“You have friends, Fen. Maybe it just means there’s nothing left to hold you back.” Her attention strayed and snapped back to a crude drawing underneath her signature in the book he was looking at. “That addition was Isabela’s, not mine.”

“Hm, an interesting thought.” He closed the cover, and clarified quickly because of the suggestive stick figures they’d just seen. “It’s just difficult to overlook the stain which magic has left on my life. If I seem bitter, it’s not without cause. Perhaps it is time to move forward,” he shrugged. “I just don’t know where that leads. Do you?”

“That’s probably a better question for someone wiser than I am. I suppose I could pretend to have an answer and Varric would make it sound noble and impressive. Sebastian would say it had something to do with the Maker, and Merrill about preserving the history of her people. The truth is, I don’t know, but does anyone? The best we can do is make the most of what we have when it’s given to us. You know how I enjoy eavesdropping,” she broke into her curvaceous grin, “and I’ve heard you talking with the others about playing cards. Maybe it’s more like playing the hand that life deals you than finding some grand purpose. Sebastian is going to leave the city soon, and go back to Starkhaven. Isabela has been with us longer than I thought she’d be, but the others don’t have any particular places to go. Wherever your path leads, I hope we’ll stay together.”

Fenris didn’t deserve her forgiveness, patience, or kindness which was always tied up in a sarcastic ribbon. There hadn’t been anyone else, but would she accept him, years too late? He had to try or his failure would be complete. “That is my hope, as well. We’ve … never discussed what happened between us three years ago.” Leaving open the door, he allowed her the opportunity to blot out anything which was more than friendship. He held his breath.

Hawke noticed and bit back a storm of words which would have put what washed the Arishok up in Kirkwall to shame. “You didn’t want to talk about it, and made that clear at the time.”

Fenris winced and dropped his eyes so that wisps of pale hair fell in a disarray across his forehead. “I felt like such a fool. I thought it better if you hated me, and I deserved no less.” Once, Hawke would have used the tips of her fingers to brush his bangs away in harmless, flirting gestures. It was stunning to realize how much he’d missed it, and wished she’d do it again. When she didn’t move, he set the books aside and stood up. “That … night, I remember your touch as if it were yesterday. I should have asked your forgiveness long ago, but I hope you can forgive me now.”

Getting on her feet to fold her arms across her chest and shift all of her weight to the back of one foot, she shook her head. For a sinking moment, he was sure she was going to say he’d done too little, too late, but she drummed her fingertips on her elbow. “You’re not going to get off that easily, Fenris. Tell me what happened and why you left the way you did that night.”

“I’ve thought about the answer a thousand times.” His voice became more ragged as he turned inward. “The pain, the memories it brought up. It was too much.” As much as he’d tried to understand how all his past had come back in a flood that night, he never had. It was possible there wasn’t an explanation and it might never happen again. He was able to grasp tiny fragments occasionally, like a few things about his sister when they had met. If what she said was true, however, he’d asked for the markings. Whoever he was before them was a stranger, and he no longer knew if it the choice was selfish to make him stronger, a thirst for blood because they promised easier killing, or benevolent to help his family. That night with Hawke it was all the pain when he remembered, the ways Danarius and the others had humiliated him when he was a boy, the horrors of his life which had become ghosts again except for the traces of feeling which they left behind. Had he told her, how would she have reacted? Three years had relentlessly pointed out his terrible judgement for not finding out. He turned to face the wall, and admitted miserably, “I was a coward.” It was his last chance, and he swallowed, voice firm as he looked anywhere but directly at her. “If I could go back, I would have stayed and told you how I felt.”

“I’m here.” Her voice was gentler, losing the knives of wit as she reached over to brush wisps of hair away from his eyebrows. “So tell me now. What would you have said?”

Hope that she might relent sparked inside of him, and he blinked solemnly into her eyes before saying the words that three long, lonely years had etched into his heart. “That nothing could be worse than living without you. If there’s a future to be had, I will gladly walk into gladly at your side.”

“You had better be grateful that I’m persistent,” she told him with saucy indulgence, “and that I have a thing for elves who would try the patience of Andraste. All right, Fenris, I forgive you. Let’s see where this mysterious future takes us together.”

For several seconds which stretched on forever, he stared at her, almost failing to believe his ears.

“Don’t just stand there,” she chided, “this is where the sweeping in those ridiculous stories of Varric’s take place.” She spread her arms out with artful drama then swooned into his shoulder like a terrible Orlesian play, pretending to faint.

That earned a very soft, brief laugh, and Fenris kissed her, making his apology physical now that the words had all been spoken.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” she insisted, playing with the ridge of his ear, but it was only teasing. “You have three years to make up for.”

“Hawke,” he started, still holding her, and wasn’t sure how to go on.

“If it’s being together which hurts you, we don’t have to–“

“It isn’t that,” he broke in quickly, and he’d already resolved that if she wanted to, they would find out if the memories were a one time occurrence. “I would like to show you something.”

“With or without clothes?” she asked innocently, tucking some of his hair behind his ear.

“Hawke,” he deadpanned again, tolerantly, and led her over to his desk, taking out the piles of drawings which he had been making of her and other things from the first. The stack had grown exponentially, and he had to retrieve more of them from boxes beneath the bed.

Curious, she picked them up and immediately noticed the signature which had gotten personal and legible with his reading lessons. Merrill’s optimism shown out from the washes of green and lines of brown which created her. “Did you –? You did this?” Staring at it, then trading for a picture of Sebastian with his bowstring pulled back to his ear, splendid in his white armor, she gawked. “Andraste’s tits, Fenris! These are incredible!” With a slight cough she held the art of Sebastian to face him, “Don’t tell Sebastian I said that. Let’s keep that our little secret, or he might get upset.”

Almost shy, he slid the heap toward her which even Varric had never seen, and she saw herself staring back from the parchment. “You drew … me?” It might have seemed invasive, but as she slowly began to look at each one, she realized each depiction was how Fenris saw her. A few of them were obviously after they had been together, and he drew her bare back, shoulders, or strategically covered some areas so the pictures were modest. Each one was much lovlier than she thought of herself, painstakingly drawn to accent her better features and make even her undesirable traits beautiful. The flaws of her face or body which glared out at her when she passed a looking glass where softer, even in the clashing splashes of blood when he depicted her in battles. The art in front of her spoke more volumes of how he felt than an entire library could have, and even his anguish was obvious when the perspective was done from an outsider watching her laugh with Varric or try to come up with new innuendos with Isabela. Many of the little scenes were things she remembered, and illustrated points of importance in her life. Many weren’t signed, having been done before he had learned, and she was sure by the crude sketchiness that one had to have been when they first met. All the years, and what he saw were worlds of green, red, and beauty.

Fenris held his breath, but he need not have. She reached up to untie her tunic and let it slide down her arms as she meandered toward a sitting couch. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you had the real thing to model for you?” Slipping out of the rest of her clothes, she borrowed a blanket from his bed and draped it over herself so that only hints of the most interesting places showed. “Draw me like one of those Orlesian girls,” she suggested, tossing her hair into its normal, windblown state.

The offer might have been a joke, and she would have gladly let him follow the kiss into a more intimate apology. Chuckling, he couldn’t resist something he had dared not hope to ever have the chance to do. With his quill in hand and fresh parchment spread out in front of him, he began to draw.


End file.
